


Fuzzy At Best

by bigblueboxat221b



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Blind Date, M/M, Misunderstandings, Post-Episode: s04e03 The Final Problem, Post-The Final Problem, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-25
Updated: 2018-04-18
Packaged: 2019-04-07 18:54:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14087436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigblueboxat221b/pseuds/bigblueboxat221b
Summary: Greg and Mycroft haven't spoken since the night after Sherrinford, and everyone's feeling the repercussions.John's worried. Greg's confused. Mycroft's resolute. Sherlock's adamant.With Valentine's Day approaching, a catalyst is needed to get them talking again.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for the Mystrade Valentine's Exchange 2018, it got slightly away from me and wasn't done in time. Here it is now, finally finished.

“I’m worried about him, Molly.” John spoke in hushed tones, flicking his eyes to the door of the morgue as though Greg might walk in at any moment. “I barely see him except at crime scenes. Even then, he’s working, isn’t he?”

Molly looked at him sympathetically. “Have you called him, John?”

“Yeah, called and texted, and asked him at crime scenes. But Sherlock’s taking a lot more private cases, so we’re only going to a few scenes now. Eights or better,” John told her. “But he blows me off every time. Won’t come down to the pub, wouldn’t even come to Christmas,” he said, as though this detail might make her realise the seriousness of the situation.

“Well, it was hard on him, all that,” Molly replied.

John nodded, knowing what she was talking about. They rarely mentioned the events of Sherrinford and certainly never by name. “It was hard on all of us,” he said quietly. Molly didn’t reply, and eventually John let himself out.

+++  
“He keeps bringing it up, Mycroft,” groused Sherlock.

“As do you, little brother,” Mycroft shot back. “We are here to work, not indulge in idle gossip.” Before Sherlock could object, Mycroft continued, “If John’s complaints are irritating you, either ask him to refrain or find a solution. Complaining to me is not a solution.” He turned back to the papers they were examining. With a huff, Sherlock did the same. The work Mycroft was offering was too interesting for him to jeopardise it. They were closer after their sister’s twisted game had come to fruition, but there were parts of his brother to which he was still not privy.

After they’d worked in silence for several hours, Sherlock spoke suddenly. “Did Greg come and see you after we got back to London? After Musgrave?”

Mycroft frowned at the interruption. He quelled his reaction to that name and turned shuttered eyes to his brother. “Yes.”

Sherlock stared at him. “And?”

“And what, Sherlock?” Mycroft knew his voice was impatient, but this was far closer to his uncomfortable truth than he wanted to admit, especially to his brother. Brother or not, Sherlock was a meddler.

“And what happened, Mycroft?” Sherlock’s eyes went wide. “You two didn’t sleep together, I hope?” He felt queasy at the very notion.

“That’s a fairly intrusive question, Sherlock,” replied Mycroft, returning his eyes to their work.

“I’m your brother.” Sherlock reminded him. He squinted at his brother, taking in all the cues and coming up with… “You turned him down.” It was dead silent in the tiny, secure room. “Mycroft?”

“It’s none of your business, Sherlock,” Mycroft snapped, eyes clenched shut. He knew it was a mistake to lose his temper at his brother, who would now pursue the truth with single-minded ruthlessness.

“It is if it makes John talk to me about it all the time,” Sherlock retorted.

Mycroft sighed. Without looking at his brother, he spoke in a low voice. “Gregory came to me after the mess at Musgrave was cleaned up. He was there in a personal capacity, he said. I believed him to have been sent to check on me; he confirmed you asked him to visit.”

Sherlock looked at his brother with disbelief. “Surely you have noticed Greg’s attraction to you, Mycroft. He can barely keep his eyes from your arse!”

Mycroft didn’t rise to his brother’s bait, instead continuing his monotone narrative. “After the trials of Sherrinford, I found myself less certain of my deductions. I could not tell if Gregory’s attention was genuine or not.” He took a deep breath. “I believe asked him to leave.”

Sherlock frowned. “You believe?”

Mycroft nodded, still facing the desk. “The days after Sherrinford are…fuzzy. My memory is not as clear, therefore, I can only say I believe I asked Gregory to leave.”

“And you haven’t seen him since.”

Mycroft shook his head. The absence pained him every day, but with an imprecise recollection of their last conversation, he had no way of knowing what kind of reception he might receive if he tried to make contact with Gregory. After he’d explained this to his brother, Mycroft could see the disbelief in Sherlock’s face. “You are a spectacularly foolish man, Mycroft,” Sherlock told him. “I guarantee you that whatever happened, Gregory will be waiting for you to make contact.”

Mycroft snorted. “How have you become such an expert on social affairs, brother?”

“John taught me,” said Sherlock quietly. “You should speak to him.” Sherlock hesitated then allowed his hand to drop briefly to his brother’s shoulder. A moment later he walked out. This was a disaster. He needed John.

+++

“I am reasonably certain Mycroft did not accept Greg’s overtures.” Sherlock announced as soon as he’d entered Baker Street. John was making dinner, but he shushed Sherlock, who had the grace to look abashed. He so rarely forgot about Rosie now.

“Overtures?” John asked, draining the pasta.

“Of a romantic nature. Please tell me you’ve noticed Greg’s interest in my brother.” Sherlock felt the shudder in the base of his spine as he spoke about his brother as the focus of someone’s desire. Yuck.

“Well, yeah, but he’s never mentioned it,” John told him. “I mean, he never mentioned what happened when he went to see Mycroft. I assumed Mycroft had blown him off, actually.”

“He did,” Sherlock replied, sitting himself at the table. John would certainly expect him to eat. “But most likely he rejected Greg’s romantic advances.”

“Most likely?” asked John, placing bowls of pasta on the table. “What, Mycroft doesn’t remember or something?” He grinned at his own joke, the smile fading when he saw Sherlock’s pointed look. “No. Seriously?”

“The events at Sherrinford must have affected him more deeply than we realised,” said Sherlock. “His memory of the days immediately following are…compromised.”

John chewed thoughtfully. “But from Greg’s perspective, he came on to Mycroft, who blew him off and probably hasn’t called him since.” Sherlock nodded, confirming John’s hypothesis. “Fuck,” John swore.

“Yes,” Sherlock agreed, tasting some of his meal. It wasn’t terrible. Nothing John cooked was terrible.

“Greg won’t talk to me,” John reminded him. “I can’t do anything.”

Sherlock’s face lit up, and he sat grinning at John. The greying head tilted before John sighed his understanding. “There’s a plan, isn’t there?”

Sherlock grinned wider.

“Okay,” John said. “What are we doing?” He liked that Sherlock no longer excluded him from his plans; John always had a role. It was the two of them against the world again.

“Three days to Valentine’s Day, John,” Sherlock said. He waited somewhat patiently until John’s shock had worn off, then said in an aside, “Yes, I have memorised the celebratory days, John.” Clearing his throat, Sherlock continued, “We need to get Mycroft and Greg together for Valentine’s Day. They need to talk.”

“Well, yeah,” John said, holding back an eye roll. “I was asking more about the how rather than the what.”

“I haven’t worked that part out yet,” Sherlock admitted. Deciding to do it immediately, he rose from the table and flopped onto the couch, retreating into his mind palace to search for inspiration.

+++

 “Happy Valentine’s Day, sir,” Sally’s voice grated on Greg, who grunted in response to her tongue in cheek greeting.

“You’re a joy today,” she remarked, handing him a sheaf of files.

“It’s just a Wednesday, Donovan,” Greg told her tersely. “There’ll be another one next week too.” Snatching the files he retreated into his office, closing the door behind him. He felt guilty for his short treatment of Sally, but wishing every man and his dog a Happy Valentine’s Day was bloody stupid in his book, and Sally knew he was involuntarily single. He wanted to squash the jovial comments as early as possible in his shift. With any luck Sally’d warn the others off and he wouldn’t have to think about how the last time he’d expressed interest in someone, they’d shut him down so hard it still hurt.

A knock on the door brought Greg back to his office, papers still in hand. “Yes?” he barked, dropping into his seat.

“This came for you,” Sally told him with a subdued air. She’d realised her mistake and was repenting. He ignored the stab of guilt and looked instead at the envelope Sally had handed him.

Sighing, he ripped it open without looking at it too hard. A white card was inside. He frowned, finally giving it his full attention. It was heavy cardstock, a single red heart penned on the front. Greg blinked, his heart speeding up as he registered what he was holding. A card, for him. On Valentine’s Day. What the hell? For a long moment, Greg stared at the front of the card, hesitating to open it. He knew who he wanted it to be from, or he used to; it had been so long now, months and months and he didn’t know what he wanted anymore. Finally he opened the card to see beautifully scripted words.

_I would be honoured to take you to dinner this evening. A car will come for you at 7pm. MH_

Greg’s heart accelerated from regular to overdrive in five seconds flat. He read and re-read the elegant script, doubting it every time he reached the end. It took his brain a long time to kick back into gear, but when it did, it raced. With a thousand questions and ideas crowding in there, Greg had to close his eyes, breathe deeply; it was slow, but it worked. From the cacophony in there, one quiet thought was clear.

_Fuck._

He nodded to himself. That really summed it up. He’d given up on Mycroft after his clear dismissal the night after the disaster that apparently happened (he still didn’t have a proper idea what went down before they’d all ended up at the Holmes family house). The silence since then had been deafening; even Greg’s tentative ‘how are things?’ kind of messages had gone unanswered, and eventually he’d given up. Not just on Mycroft, he was honest enough with himself to say. He’d been guiltily pleased when Sherlock had upped his required level of interest for attendance at NSY scenes (email complete with data tables and examples). It had meant less face to face with John, who had been far too good to Greg and probably thought he was a complete arsehole by now. He’d stopped dropping in to chat to Molly, given up drinks at the pub…disbelievingly, Greg looked again at the card in his hand. Was it possible after all this time that Mycroft had been harbouring an attraction to him? Surely Valentine’s Day hadn’t been the impetus for this. Greg couldn’t see Mycroft as the soppy romantic type. The thought crossed his mind that Mycroft might not even know it was Valentine’s Day, that it was a coincidence. Too unlikely to seriously consider, he told himself.

Which left him with the only possible explanation: The first contact in months, and Mycroft had asked him to dinner on Valentine’s Day.

Well. That was something he never saw coming.

Greg had deliberately let his paperwork pile up so he could justify hiding out for as much of this blasted day as possible. Quite a bit of it was urgent now, and would take up most of the day. On top of that, he really needed to go home before Mycroft picked him up. Shower, shave, better suit, better shoes…Greg was just wondering if he could squeeze in a haircut, hand on his mobile to text Mycroft _Would the car be able to pick me up at home?_ , when Anderson knocked on his door.

“What is it?” Greg asked him, irritated by the interruption.

“Problem with the evidence for the Harrington case,” Anderson said in a petulant tone. Greg fixed him with a stare that prompted, “I think it’s fine. Molly seems to think there’s a problem.”

Well that explained his attitude, Greg thought. He dropped his phone, forgetting about the message to Mycroft. The Harrington case was a big one, and they couldn’t afford any doubt.

“Take me through it,” Greg said with as much patience as he could muster.

+++

By 6.30, Greg had given up on going home before his date. Anderson had been a pain in the arse, whining over the paperwork Molly insisted he complete. Greg had backed her, informing Philip he’d be staying until the paperwork was completed and Greg had reviewed it. It had finally been done, but with as much complaining as the tech could get away with. Greg had used every technique he knew to keep from throttling him, including half a pack of cigarettes. The relapse annoyed him almost as much as Anderson himself, and when he finally put the last of his paperwork down, Greg knew he’d need to leave the frustration here or the date would be a disaster. He took his spare shirt and bag of stuff from the cupboard, winding through the quiet office to the men’s.

The man that stared back at him looked irritated at best. Greg ran one hand half-heartedly through his hair, despairing at the messy spikes. Sighing, he relieved himself, changed his shirt – no tie, the one he was wearing didn’t match – and tried to make a go of his hair. He’d refreshed his deodorant and brushed his teeth, grateful he had the experience to keep a bag of toiletries at work. The hair wax was on its last legs and he hoped he’d remember to replace it before it was next needed. After quite a bit of fussing he managed to get his hair looking more or less presentable.

The internal argument continued throughout his ablutions. _Why am I putting so much effort into this? I never thought he’d call, I was over him, remember? I should have gone home, let him come looking for me. Ignored him like he ignored me._ His thoughts meandered around to _Why did he blow you off, anyway? You never did find out what happened with their sister. Christ. What a turn up for the books._

Greg’s hands stalled as they washed the remnants of the wax from his fingers. _What the fuck was he doing?_ Staring at himself, less rumpled but still tired, still old; he felt every one of his forty-some years today. Hair still grey, face still lined, shoulders still rounded. He had no idea what Mycroft wanted but surely, _surely_ it wasn’t a date. Greg shook his head, not allowing the self-deprecating thoughts to start up again. He knew what he was, and what Mycroft was; Mycroft made it clear how he felt, and that was that. He probably wanted to see what Sherlock was up to.

Keeping that idea firmly in front of him, Greg checked his watch. Five minutes. Mycroft was sure to be precisely on time, so Greg took his stuff back to his office and shook his jacket out – at least it looked okay, having been hung up all day. Wallet, keys, ID, phone, last look in the mirror ( _what are you doing? Just go_ ), and he was making his way down the stairs, blaming his speed for the pounding of his heart. He didn’t even have to pause in the lobby; the black car waited on the street for him, and Greg slid inside without thinking.


	2. Chapter 2

Mycroft frowned at his phone. It was unlike Sherlock to communicate with him about anything unrelated to work, even after Sherrinford.

_Have you considered contacting Greg? Today is Valentine’s Day, brother. SH_

On the other hand, it was very like Sherlock to meddle in his affairs even when he had been told explicitly to back off. The message had come in early this morning, no doubt designed to sit in the back of his mind all day. It had worked, too; Mycroft had been quite distracted. It hadn’t shown of course, but his concentration slipped several times.

He thought about trying to speak to Greg, to find out what exactly had transpired that evening. It was unnerving. Mycroft had an excellent memory, and knowing there were periods of time for which his recall was fuzzy at best…he shifted uncomfortably, trying to unseat the discomfort in his mind.

He had no recollection of the journey from Sherrinford back to the Diogenes Club, nor of his actions before Gregory arrived. They had spoken, he remembered; generalities about the aftermath of his sister’s games, he thought. At the time his efforts were internalised, trying to make sense of what happened, to scour his own behaviour and find anything to justify his gravely erroneous decisions when it came to Eurus.

Towards the end of their conversation (had there been Scotch? He seemed to remember Scotch), Gregory asked something about going to dinner. Mycroft issued the polite refusal automatically, as he would to any undesirable social request.

It was not until hours later, lying in bed and avoiding the horrors of memory from Sherrinford that Mycroft reviewed the conversation with the Detective Inspector. His memory even was less than reliable, but with a growing horror he had finally paid attention to the expression on the Detective Inspector’s face, his tone of voice; the specific words had eluded Mycroft, but no matter. Had Gregory been asking him on a date? The indicators, though imperfectly remembered, seemed to strongly suggest it. And he, Mycroft, turned him down with a cool dismissal, much as he would send away an unsatisfactory underling.

That was when the shame had begun, a new level to overshadow his failings with Eurus. The man he had been covertly interested in for months, with whom he had pictured private walks and intimate dinners, late nights and sleepy early mornings. The kind, funny, loyal Detective Inspector in whom Mycroft had shown a shade more interest than was strictly necessary, the brave one who had finally asked Mycroft out, and he was so wrapped up in himself that he failed to recognise the moment for what it was.

Mycroft closed his eyes, hoping to stem the mortification burning through his soul. It did not help, and so he steeled his heart instead, locking it away to protect it. Gregory would want to hear nothing more from Mycroft, that was beyond doubt. If nothing else, Mycroft could do that for him – stay away, allow him to recover from the blow and move on with his life.

At least one of them would be able to do so.

Now, months later, Sherlock was making noises about it again. Mycroft was well aware it was Valentine’s Day. Even in his sheltered life, the flashes of red roses and soppy cards were too saturating to miss. He had never before commented on the day, and this year was no different. For once he was grateful to be thought beyond it all; the Iceman persona protected him again.

Ignoring his brother, Mycroft packed up his office and made to leave. He would stop at the Diogenes Club for a drink in the blissful silence before going home. Before he could make it out the door, Anthea came in with a message. He raised his eyebrows, but she shrugged. There was an understanding that messages from certain people would always be delivered, no matter the circumstances.

_Danger night. Something about you. Come at once. Please, Mycroft. John._

Mycroft read the note, knowing the tightening of his mouth would give his sudden anxiety away. “Thank you,” he said before striding out. His car was already waiting.


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock was nowhere to be found when Mycroft entered 221 Baker Street. He avoided the creaky stairs out of habit, still considering several ways he might approach his brother. The complete absence of people in the flat made him pause, frowning. So many anomalies…the tidy flat, kitchen table set for dinner, flowers, candles; he could smell a meal cooking, see red wine open on the bench. Absences were as notable; no scientific equipment, no lingering smell of explosives, decomposition or gunpowder. There was no scenario in Mycroft’s considerable mind that would account for all the information he was taking in.

The first inkling of something orchestrated was the envelope with his name scripted on the front. It rested indolently on the mantle, beside that ridiculous skull. Mycroft blinked, mind screaming before his training kicked in, shunting the panic aside in favour of rational and considered action. Hesitantly, he walked over to the mantle, picking up the envelope with shaking fingers. It was his brother’s hand, and the few lines penned on the paper inside were short and to the point.

 

_Brother,_

_If Sherrinford taught me anything, it is that we are responsible for our own actions. Do not allow your actions of the past define you. Define yourself instead by your actions tonight – take a risk on the best of the Scotland Yarders. If nothing else, explain your actions to Gregory, that he might no longer wonder how he failed you. John tells me the unknown is the most difficult with which to reconcile. Do not condemn Greg to the same unending agony._

_SH_

 

Mycroft read his brother’s words carefully, then a second time. He was surprised Sherlock was so introspective; it was not like him to turn his considerable powers of observation on himself. Mycroft noted the reference to the Fall, and its effect on John. Both brothers had been taken aback at the depth of John’s emotion when Sherlock returned. From this comment, it was clear the flatmates had spoken about it, probably at some length. Mycroft had no doubt his brother had chosen his words carefully, weighing them to be emotionally barbed. Mycroft’s defences were solid, so Sherlock had instead targeted Greg’s pain. The subtext was clear: _Greg is already suffering because of your actions. You can stop it. If you do not have the courage to ask him out, at least tell him what happened._ The words swirled around in his head, pushing at the barrier containing his panic, tempting it to take over, to trample his rationality. He breathed deeply, reinforcing his barriers, making certain the panic would not triumph.

Evidently, Gregory would be on his way here. Sherlock and John had conspired to lure them both here, to force the issue. Why they cared was beyond Mycroft, but he set that question aside, its relevance paling in comparison to the more pressing issue – how on earth would he face Gregory? He could walk out, of course, it was highly unlikely that his brother would have a plan in place to prevent it. Alarmingly, Mycroft realised he was not seriously considering leaving. His concern was ‘how do I deal with this’ rather than ‘how do I avoid it’.

+++

Greg frowned. He had paid no attention to their route as the car drove; now that they were pulling up at Baker Street, he was not prepared.

“Is this a joke?” he asked.

Startlingly, the driver answered him. “No sir. My directions were to bring you here and ask you to ascend the stairs to the apartment of Mr. Holmes’ brother.” The driver stepped out to open the door, and pressed a key into Greg’s hand as he alighted.

“Thank you,” said Greg automatically.

The driver nodded at him, then stepped back into the car and drove away.

Greg looked up at 221 Baker Street, thinking. The lights were on, but he couldn’t see anyone moving around, not that it made a difference. Why the hell was he here? Did Sherlock have something to do with this? It was an obvious conclusion, but no less confusing. The main thing Greg wanted to know was if Mycroft was upstairs. If he was brought here for a conversation with Sherlock – presumably about Mycroft – that was one thing. But an evening with Mycroft – especially an unwilling Mycroft – was another thing entirely. What if Mycroft didn’t know he was coming? Oh God, another thing to worry about. Mycroft might not even be expecting him.

“Fuck.” Greg ducked under the awning of the sandwich shop, patting himself down, then swearing again when he remembered he’d smoked his last cigarette trying not to cause Anderson grievous bodily harm. Right. Deep breath, then. That would have to do. Oxygen instead of nicotine. A poor substitute, but better than nothing. Best to just do it. Get it over with and he could get on with his life.

Greg opened the door and stepped into Baker Street. It was odd letting yourself into someone else’s flat. He climbed to stairs, wincing at the creaks as he set his weight on the treads. Whoever was up there would know he was coming. His heart was hammering as he approached the open door, and with a deep breath, Greg knocked on the doorframe and peered inside.

“Hello?”

The figure standing before the fireplace was reading something, a letter. That was not what made Greg catch his breath.

It was rush of emotion he felt at seeing him again.

Mycroft.

The man who presumably ran the country looked terrible. In the moment before Mycroft registered Greg’s presence, his silhouette showed a deep sorrow. The light was low in the flat, hiding many of the details, but the slump of his shoulders spoke volumes.

As Greg stepped forward and Mycroft smoothed his expression, Greg saw the pallor he could not hide, the tired eyes of a chronically poor sleeper.

“Hi,” Greg said. He felt awkward now, gauche as a teenager facing their crush.

“Good evening,” Mycroft replied. Greg was surprised to see Mycroft looking flustered.

“I’m guessing this was all Sherlock?” Greg asked.

“Doctor Watson played his role,” Mycroft corrected him.

“No way,” replied Greg. “John was in on this?”

“Yes,” Mycroft said. “I was lured here by his request for help.”

“Ah,” said Greg. He hoped Mycroft wouldn’t ask…

“How did Sherlock convince you to…oh,” Mycroft cut himself off, and Greg knew he’d seen the evidence – his clean shirt and recently done hair, probably.

“A message supposedly from you. Asking me to dinner.” Greg felt compelled to confirm it. “I didn’t think I’d end up here.”

“Of course not,” Mycroft looked almost offended. “Why would I dine here?”

Greg was at a loss, but the look on Mycroft’s face was almost funny. He couldn’t help himself. The chuckle set itself loose. “Sorry,” he said. “I just imagined anyone hoping to come here and find something edible in that fridge.”

Mycroft considered the comment, and Greg wondered for a moment if he would deny the humour and leave. “True. Perhaps we should be certain the kitchen is fit for us to eat,” He added hastily, “assuming you are amenable to dining with me.”

+++

Mycroft’s heart was pounding hard as he waited for Greg to answer him. He had been re-reading the letter when Greg had arrived – the sound of his footsteps had not even registered. He looked…sad, Mycroft was startled to see. He’d made an effort, that much was clear, but there was an overall air of defeat about him. He had looked at Mycroft as though he was an apparition, and Mycroft had the fleeting thought that Greg had not actually expected him to be here.

“Yeah,” Greg had answered, eyes flicking towards the kitchen. “Something smells good, anyway.” They moved toward the kitchen, stopping in the doorway to survey the changes.

“Bloody hell,” Greg muttered. “Alternative universe or what?”

Despite himself, Mycroft smiled. “Indeed. I suspect John’s influence extended this far, too.”

As he spoke, Greg had opened the oven, using a dishcloth to pull out a dish of something that looked like a lamb stew and an apple crumble. “I suppose dinner’s served?” he asked uncertainly.

“It would make sense to eat the meal provided, yes,” Mycroft agreed. He noticed that neither of them had expressed an actual desire to sit and eat with the other. That was to be expected, of course. It was miraculous enough that Greg had come at all, let alone agreed to tolerate a meal with him after his inexcusable behaviour.

“It’s still pretty hot,” said Greg. “Maybe a glass of wine first?”

“Certainly,” Mycroft agreed. He took the red – a nice bottle, that would be Sherlock’s influence – and poured for each of them, passing one glass to Greg. He braced himself but the inevitable touch of his fingers to Greg’s still felt like electricity up his arm. From what he could see, Greg felt it too; there was something, certainly, and the strained but light atmosphere immediately dropped, becoming oppressive.

“What are we doing here, Mycroft?” Greg asked.

Mycroft blinked. He opened his mouth to speak and found it dry. A mouthful of wine helped momentarily. He cleared his throat. “I don’t know.” The admission was difficult but honest. The past months had been exhausting, and if he was being handed the opportunity for some closure – for both of them – he would be foolish not to take it up.

Greg was nodding. “I don’t know why I came here tonight. I mean, I thought you…but you didn’t.”

“No.” Mycroft agreed. “I should have.”

“You shut me down pretty hard,” said Greg.

Mycroft knew exactly what he was talking about. It was the last time they’d seen each other, the last time they had spoken at all. The day after Sherrinford.

“Did I?” Mycroft asked. He barely could hear the uncertainty in his voice over the pounding of his heart. Greg wasn’t an Inspector for nothing, and Mycroft was relying on him picking up the discrepancy.

“Well, yeah,” frowned Greg, right on cue. “Wait, you mean you don’t remember?”

Mycroft felt himself flushing at the scrutiny. “My recollection of our conversation is fuzzy at best. Incomplete.”

Greg said nothing, his face still confused. Absently, he sipped at his wine.

Mycroft allowed him to think, not wanting to disrupt whatever delicate balance had developed to allow this conversation to take place.

Finally, when Mycroft thought his heart might explode from the curious awareness of being so close to Greg again, the detective spoke. “When Sherlock asked me to come and see you, after Sherrinford,” he said slowly, swirling his wine, “I expected you to be…less, I dunno, put together. Composed,” he added as the word came to him. He looked up at Mycroft. “You seemed kind of okay. A bit distracted, but from what I heard there were some issues with your sister.”

“Did Sherlock not…no, of course not.” Seeing Greg’s confusion, Mycroft said, “Sherlock didn’t tell you what happened…” He felt himself stiffen at the incomplete sentence, the rising inflection inferring a question without an interrogatory grammatical structure. What a disaster. Refocussing, he scanned Greg’s expression.

“Sherlock hasn’t told me a thing.” Greg’s voice was quiet, matching the gentle confusion and hurt on his face. “As I said, I only know the stuff I saw at that big house. Your family’s house. I mean, I heard your sister broke out of some secret prison somewhere, but,” he shrugged self-consciously, “it was a fair way above my clearance, I reckon.”

Mycroft’s heart was pounding as he realised Greg was offering him an opportunity for dialogue. So, for the first time in his career, and with a silent apology to the Crown in general and Her Majesty in particular, Mycroft took a deep breath and risked his job, his freedom and his life.

He told Greg everything.

The words came slowly and quietly at first, as Mycroft told Greg of his childhood, the good times at Musgrave Hall before Eurus’ personality began to assert itself. He could feel Greg’s attention on him and it gave him the odd sense of support and gentle encouragement. As he spoke of the slow poison Eurus has spread through their family, Mycroft’s voice slowed.

He swallowed then looked into Greg’s eyes for a beat before continuing, outlining his role in Eurus’ ongoing incarceration. He was candid about his shortcomings, explaining with brutal honestly how she had manipulated him to her own end. It was difficult, and he felt the colour rise in his cheeks, his shortcomings on display without reservation.

As Mycroft came to the crisis point of his experience, he faltered, words failing him to describe the horror of Eurus’ ultimatum – either he or John to kill the Governor – and the Governor’s desperate and ultimately futile suicide. He found himself taking deep, shaking breaths, clutching at his wine glass.

Greg stepped forward, eyes locking on Mycroft, silently offering more support.

Mycroft smiled a little, feeling the strength pull back the pieces into which he was about to shatter. Without speaking, Greg moved slowly to sit on the sofa, offering Mycroft the same. The few moments of shifting and settling allowed Mycroft to draw himself together, and he continued his tale, voice shaking but determined. He was sitting upright on the sofa, folded in on himself, not facing Greg but drawing comfort from his presence.

The dialogue was not as elegant as his usual speech. He stuttered sometimes, forgot words, used clumsy grammar; his eloquence was forgotten in the emotional drain of his story. As though from a distance, Mycroft could hear the fear in his voice as he described the hours locked in Eurus’ cell, nauseated and afraid, not knowing where Sherlock had been taken or what Eurus had planned for him.

It was unlike Mycroft to acknowledge his emotions; many months of work had gone into his analysis of what he could remember, and it had been carefully stored away in his mind never again to be re-examined. Bringing it up was difficult, even with the flow of support he could feel from Greg, but he pushed on. It was almost cathartic; as he reached the point at which he and Greg met in the Diogenes Club, Mycroft glanced at Greg, bracing for a range of negative reactions – disappointment, pity, disgust, even anger.

The double take was genuine when he looked away only to bring his eyes back, studying Greg’s expression. There was a complex mix of emotion swirling across Greg’s face, and Mycroft searched for words to pinpoint what he saw. He looked…empathetic? Sympathetic, certainly. Try as he might Mycroft could see no evidence of the negative reactions he so feared.

Unsure what to say now that Greg knew what had happened up to his own arrival Mycroft cleared his throat, eyes dropping from Greg’s. He felt a wave of fatigue roll over him, the emotional strength fading with the release of so much inner turmoil he hadn’t realised was affecting him so much. Placing his hands on his knees, Mycroft breathed deeply, allowing Greg to decide what happened next.

“Mycroft,” Greg’s voice was careful, and Mycroft felt hesitant fingers cover his, sliding between. The pads of Greg’s fingers pressed against his kneecap and Mycroft released a shaking breath at the contact. He felt it into his bones, and a faint twist of hope flashed in his stomach that he and Greg might reach some kind of accord.

Carefully, Mycroft tilted his head towards Greg, hoping he understood that Mycroft was listening.

“Mycroft,” Greg said again. To Mycroft’s astonishment, his voice wavered as he whispered, “I’m so sorry.”

“I beg…what?” Mycroft choked out, clenching his hands and turning to Greg. He wanted to ask why Greg felt he had to apologise, to assure him he bore no responsibility for any of the events Mycroft had outlined. His mouth opened and closed without sound, his throat too thick with emotion to speak.

“I had no idea,” Greg explained, his own voice low and intense. “I never would have asked you out if I knew…I didn’t even think, I mean you seemed so together, I assumed you were okay.”

“No, no,” said Mycroft, feeling his eyes grow wide as he realised what Greg was saying. His desperation to reassure Greg broke through his own turmoil. “No, you don’t…this is my error, my poor choices.” He took a deep breath, trying to assemble his scattered thoughts. “Please, Gregory, it’s not…not you.” To his intense mortification a sob escaped him, and he pressed his lips tightly together.

“What about,” said Greg softly, shifting on the sofa until his leg was pressed against Mycroft’s, “we agree to disagree. We could argue all night about who was more responsible for all this.” Warm fingers cupped Mycroft’s jaw, turning his head until he was looking at Greg.

The intimacy of looking right at him with barely an arms’ length between them was somehow more affecting than sharing his story. Mycroft swallowed hard, waiting once again for Greg to take the lead. The hand over his was moving now; the thumb was stroking his skin, swirls of a light entering his bloodstream, spreading through his body with every rapid beat of his heart.

“The most important thing is not what happened then, but what we want to happen now.” Mycroft nodded, his heart in his mouth. “So tell me Mycroft,” Greg asked quietly, “what do you want right now?”

This was it, the offer he had turned down all those months ago, miraculously presented once again. He was not going to make the same mistake again. Gathering his courage, the strength of his fear and loneliness and every shred of the Ice Man’s self-control, Mycroft turned his body towards Greg. Picking up Greg’s hand in both of his, Mycroft pressed it to his lips, the knuckles grazing his teeth in his fervour.

“Please…” Mycroft murmured, eyes closed. His face was pressed into the back of Greg’s hand, cradling it with tense fingers as he waited for Greg’s reply.

“Oh, Mycroft,” he heard, and Greg’s hand was withdrawing from his, only to return with its pair to cup his face. “Yes,” Greg whispered, the words caressing Mycroft’s face a split second before his lips made contact. They kissed lightly, skin brushing as though neither wanted to push the other, instead savouring this, the comfort in their brief touches after such an intense conversation.

Mycroft loved having Greg’s hands on his face, he decided. It made him feel like Greg was concentrating all his attention on him and only him, pouring the balm of his affection and care into Mycroft. He felt its warmth run like warm honey over his pain, gently smoothing out the harshest barbs. It was only the beginning of a long road, he knew, but it was a beginning. The fear that Greg would reconsider was still real, and Mycroft felt his lips trembling in between kisses, his breath ragged.

“Hey,” Greg murmured, “It’s okay, I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.” He was almost crooning the words, promises bathing Mycroft’s skin, whispered reassurances in a steady stream between kisses.

Mycroft allowed himself to be collected up in Greg’s arms, to be held close and soothed for the first time in his adult life. After so much distrust, keeping secrets and pushing people away, he’d ended up alone and in pain. Perhaps it was time to try something different. Forgiveness and trust sounded like a good beginning, and Mycroft knew Greg would take things slowly. He’d seen the weaknesses in Mycroft and miraculously enough, appeared willing to make the effort to get to know him.

“Our dinner will be cold,” Greg said, tucking Mycroft’s head under his chin. He didn’t really seem to mind, going by the tone of his voice.

“Doesn’t matter,” Mycroft replied. After such a long evening, his head was fuzzy again. A good fuzzy this time – Mycroft doubted anything could make him forget this Valentine’s Day.


End file.
